


setting in a honeymoon

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: They're both rather good at this self-sabotaging thing, neither able to muster up even the pretense of caring about the dates they set each other on. They can't manage the energy for it. It's difficult to care about your date when all you care about is the person that set you up with them. Too difficult to fall in love when you already are.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so @blondecrowns asked me for a fic in which emma & killian set each other up on dates while pining for one another & it turned into this...thing that was never meant to be this long at all

It feels a tad pointed that when he collapses on the couch, sinking into the well-worn groove born from his and Emma’s slumping, and flicks their brand new 4K UltraHD on, he comes into _that_ scene in Star Trek: Beyond.

It’s telling that he truly feels that the movie is speaking to his soul.

For one, it means that this day has really pushed him past his limits. Things don’t _tend_ to speak to him when he’s in a healthy frame of mind. Perhaps his bottle of rum whispers to him, but that’s as far as it goes. Two, it means that he’s already brooding, which usually doesn’t start until an hour or so after a failed date. _Sabotage_ , yes, he’s aware that he’s doing that to himself. “Is that classical?” Yes, he believes it is, a classic he’s been pulling ever since Emma flopped into that leather couch in his office - not nearly as used as this one - and asked him if he needed a roommate because living with the thin walls of her single wasn’t working anymore.

That couch, actually, has only ever been used by Emma. Killian’s clients tend to take the chair, his associates nearly always prefer to stand, and he’s never been tempted to lounge on it; if he has time for lounging, he’d rather spend that time at home.

He never thought he’d be a homebody but that assumption had never taken Emma Swan into account. He can be forgiven for that; she isn’t someone you can quite imagine entering your life. His imagination’s not as inventive as that. His fantasies could never compare.

The rum starts to whisper to him around the time that the planet’s defense receives the frequency. As of now, he’s swearing off Star Trek movies. Killian remember this moment with an awful clarity every time Kirk opens his bloody mouth, and, for that matter, he’s swearing off Chris - which one is this? Emma would know. He’s never watching another of his movies.

If he can help it, which all depends on Emma’s choice for their couch nights. He can’t very well tell her that he can’t watch his movies without thinking about how he paid for his date’s - tonight it was Lisa - cab, and she smiled at him like she just understood that he wasn’t going to call. He’s seen that look enough times, it’s old hat and one that he’s grateful for because he’d rather not have a lass waiting for a call he can’t make.

Especially after Samantha scheduled an appointment with him just to ask why he didn’t. He came very close to pointing out that the whole affair of her scheduling an appointment just to ask about his romantic intentions wasn’t putting forth an argument for why he would. He chose bluntness over sarcasm, although he wonders whether that day would’ve gone better had he chosen the sarcasm. Sometimes his jaws still smarts in memory. Samantha was heavy-handed, and his “I prefer it the hard way” line from his early law school days definitely came back to bite him the ass that day.

He rubs his jaw, and switches to On Demand to find something less pointed to watch. He chooses Adult Swim because every show on their lineup is unsettling or horrifying enough to be in no way a reminder of his sorry state. Crazed alcoholic scientist forcing his grandson into amusement park in the body of a homeless man? Killian can neither comprehend nor relate.

He tries to wring out some of the self-pity in the brain decay involved in watching Rick & Morty, and is almost _just_ hopeless when the lock on their door starts to turn, an audible “fuck” sounding through the door, and that feels rather pointed, too.

Fucked, he is.

-

The lock takes forever to finally click. If their landlord doesn’t get his ass up here to fix the damn thing, she’s going to full Home Improvement on this fucker and install a new one herself.

She curses again, balancing the ice cream spilling out of the torn bag, her purse, and their mail while trying to turn the doorknob.

“Aha!” she cries in triumph as she finally spills inside without her heels skidding across the floor and taking her and the ice cream down with them.

Even a shit evening has its upsides.

She hears a slew of curses that even her “filthy mouth” would find hard to say, and she shakes her head, a rueful smile at her lips. She really shouldn’t be happy that Killian’s here already. She really, really shouldn’t because it isn’t like it means she’s gaining some kind of ground in this “I’m in love with my roommate” battle. It’s more like walking sideways up a hill, never actually approaching the peak. That peak being a life-altering kiss - maybe her foot pops Princess Diaries style as he kisses her like he’s been in love with her all along. That’s the peak she’s going with today. Some days it’s the push her up against the counter, crowding her space until she’s forced to look at him and see the love shining in his eyes, one. Other days it’s her walking in the door and finding him holding out a bouquet of flowers he knows she hates and telling her he knows she’ll keep them anyway with that smug, knowing smirk that infuriates and makes her heart swoop at the same time.

The fantasies are becoming increasingly more fantastic. Not a good sign.

“No ‘Honey, I’m home’?” Killian calls out as she sets everything on their counter.

He doesn’t turn to look at her just yet so he doesn’t see her roll her eyes or clench the counter hard enough to turn her knuckles white in reminiscence of the stupid confessions she’s clenching behind her teeth.

“Where’d you pick up that reference?” she says, hoping it doesn’t sound too strained.

“Not sure,” Killian says.

“Mmm,” she grunts.

He turns to look at her then, and smiles soft, in that way he always does when he gets first glance of her that day. She hates it.

His gaze swivels past her to the torn bag on the counter.

“Is that ice cream?”

“Yep.”

Emma sees his mouth twitch, and deciding against torture this evening, she says, “I brought you some, too. Want me to put it in the freezer?”

“You, sweetheart, are too good to me.”

She blinks and grabs the ice cream off the counter so she can stick her head into the freezer to avoid the hopelessness in her expression and cool down the redness in her cheeks.

It’s only after she’s taken her head out of the freezer that he asks with only the slightest hint of emotion, “So Richard was a wash, I take it?”

“Yeah, sorry. I know he’s like one of the last decent and single co-workers you have available to hook me up with, but we just didn’t click,” Emma lies, truths, whatever, it’s a mix.

He sighs heavily. “Don’t apologize. I’m in the same boat as you. Lisa was quite nice, but we lacked a spark.”

“I hope you paid for her cab.”

“I _am_ a gentleman, Swan,” he insists, not for the first time.

“Sorry about Samantha,” she says instinctively.

He chuckles, this time a little more bitterly than usual. She notes the unusual tics and intonations in his words and tone. It’s been worse lately, her jokes receiving drier laughs, her smiles a minor furrow in his brow.

It isn’t helping her fantastical fantasies draw any closer to reality.

It isn’t helping her heart withstand its inevitable collapse from the weight of her pent up feelings. Archie’s therapy offer is seeming more and more like a good idea because at least she’ll have someone to tell this to without worrying about back pats of pity and not so gentle nudging into a confession that’ll leave her out on her ass, looking for another single with thin walls and screeching cats next door, or in a very nice apartment full of memories and absent of his presence.

“As long as you…” his jaw tightens, his face screws up, and it takes him a moment to settle into a smile that isn’t quite right, “keep up this pattern of not setting me up within any of your bail bonds acquaintances, I should be safe.”

Emma nods, mood worsening with his obviously dark mood. He’s probably tired of this, too. She’s going to have to put in a real effort to find him someone whose company will take him at least past date three. Hopefully further even if it means sucking up these little fantasies and tucking them in the box of her parents finally coming to claim her, Neal apologizing, someone loving her absolutely unconditionally.

She swallows and turns away to open the fridge just for something to do with her hands.

“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“You’re so considerate,” he announces seemingly out of nowhere. “Always thinking of me.”

She nods, yep, always thinking of him, even when she’s trying very hard not to and she really doesn’t want to because thinking of him is nice, which usually hurts her the most.

“What do you want?” Emma asks, choosing shallow humor over the depth of her heart.

He sighs heavily and dramatically.

“Watch a movie with me.”

Pushing him out of that comfortable groove in the couch and settling into it so she can rest her head comfortably on his arm, her favorite makeshift pillow, would be very tempting under other circumstances.

Today, she begs it off, “I’m actually exhausted. These heels are killing my feet and I just want to sink beneath my comforter and sleep until next Tuesday.”

“Ah, yes, go on to bed, Swan. Sorry to delay you with my inanity.”

Emma finds that it isn’t a lie when she waves at him and heads down the hall to her room. She is exhausted. Pining is hard work, and she’s just not up to it tonight.

Tomorrow, she can love him.

Tonight, she just needs to be asleep.

-

As deep as she tends to sleep, her senses are attuned to this, so when she hears the muffled shout, she’s wide awake in seconds, tripping out of bed, and it takes no more than a minute for her to push open his door.

Killian’s waking up already, the distress fading from his breath, but still she climbs into his bed. She sits by his pillow, notes the sweat soaking it to remind herself to switch it out when he’s able to get up. One of her hands runs across his wet forehead, the other drawing gentle circles into his temple. He’s awake now, but he doesn’t open his eyes yet. Only when his breaths steady does he open them, and then it’s only to stare off at the wall. Emma slides down to lay beside him, one hand still rubbing at his temple, but the other within reach when he finally grabs it and squeezes.

Silence follows, only broken when Killian laughs, more a sharp break in the quiet than a humored sound.

“It’s a good thing that date didn’t work out. I spared her this.”

“Stop that,” she says.

He silences, only to quietly apologize a moment later.

Emma squeezes his hand hard to punctuate her, “Shut up, it’s fine.”

“I probably would’ve scarred her for life,” Killian says.

“She’d be fine.” To prove her point, she says, “I’m fine.”

His mouth twitches slightly, and he affirms, “Aye, but that’s because you understand.”

A bit miffed, she says, “Because I understand pain?”

He shifts, finally looking at her. His eyes look so sad in this light, and she squeezes his hand as if to squeeze out some of that grief.

It seems to work for he manages a smile that isn’t exactly happy, but more...yearning.

“No, not at all. It’s because you understand _me_.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, but he does.

“You allow me comfort that I wouldn’t take for myself, but so desperately need. Rub my temples to soothe my head, let me hold you because you know I need the contact to ground me. You give so much for such little reward.”

She stays quiet.

It isn’t a little reward to be able to be there for him. Loving him doesn’t need a prize. Although it would be so -

She stops rubbing his temple to stroke her hand down his cheek and towards his neck.

“Lift up,” she says. “We have to change the pillow.”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t release his hand to do the necessary shifting required of getting a dry pillow beneath him, though it takes a bit longer. When they’re both settled, Emma lying beside him underneath the sheet, she presses her hand to his bare belly, feeling it rise and fall with every breath.

Hers evens out before his does.

She finds comfort in this, too.

-

He wakes up with Emma still beside him. Their hands lost their grip in their sleep, but his still brushes against hers. He traces the pads of her fingers with his. A few strands of hair have fallen in her face so that when she exhales, they fly forward.

Killian reaches to catch them, but his fingers catch on nothing.

His fingers are nothing.

Sometimes, he forgets.

As he rolls over to try to get at his brace, Emma shifts beside him, fighting the last tendrils of sleep to lean over him. He looks back at her, and knows he won’t get out of this without some kind of words, so he says, “Ah, yes, night terrors and lack of prosthetic? I saved Lisa a lot of trouble.”

He should expect Emma not to stand for the self-pity, but there’s a fire in her this time that he can’t hope to withstand as she pushes him back on his back and grabs his face between both hands.

“Anyone that is scared away by that doesn’t deserve you. Anyone who thinks that who you are is trouble isn’t meant for you.”

He closes his eyes as if he could shut her out with just a blink. She has him in her fierce hold, but his feelings are fiercer. They’d overwhelm her in a second, near to overwhelming him. He keeps his eyes shut for as long as he can, but he craves the sight of her - always has, always will - and he’s too hungry to fight the craving.

He opens his eyes, and realizes that she’s still looking at him with that desperation on her face.

“They aren’t meant for you,” she says, so much softer this time, her lips pouting softly around the words, and gods, if she said anything else, he’d have been able to resist. If she told him to stop being an idiot, he could’ve given her that. If she told him to get over himself and stop pretending that he doesn’t think he’s hot shit, he could’ve just chuckled and given her that as well.

But he gives her what she isn’t asking for instead.

Her lips are close enough to kiss, and they aren’t enticing in the way they usually are, where he just wants to know what she tastes like, the thought having tortured him for too long. They don’t beg to be kissed. They’re just _there_ , and it’s his lips that have to do the talking. He presses forward with the intensity of his devotion, just this side of unrestrained because not even he can tell how far he’d go for her - to the ends of the world? Time? He softens it with the care she deserves, her heart too long abused and still so gentle.

He doesn’t get beyond that.

He wants to speak his love, but Emma overwhelms, she always does, and he doesn’t understand what she’s saying but he tries to translate hope in it.

She recoils with the same intensity, and he doesn’t even get a chance to catch up.

She murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” as she near scrambles from his bed. Slips down the hall before he even sits up and at the speed she’s moving he half-expects their door to slam and her car to start somewhere very far away before he realizes the depth of his mistake.

Whatever her lips were saying in that instant, it wasn’t meant for him. She’s made that much clear.

Killian hears the shower turn on, and he could probably let loose the moan of despair without her hearing it, but he’s set free too much emotion already. The backlash of that might kill him, no need to dig his grave even deeper.

He doesn’t truly know what to do with himself now, so he goes about what he normally would. Straightens his bed, flattens out the Emma shaped wrinkles in his pillows and sheets. He finds the hardest part of it all is to take off the pillowcase he’d soaked the night before. If Emma wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have thought to do it himself for a long while, but it would’ve been a truly long time before he even considered falling back asleep so it wouldn’t have mattered how long he laid in his own terror-induced perspiration.

He loses himself in one of those dazes, only until he realizes just how badly he needs to go to the bathroom. He’d have no trouble usually, but -

He steels himself because considering going down to Will’s or to the gym’s bathroom is pure cowardice. Emma deserves to be loved. He won’t have her think that loving her is something to be ashamed of.

Killian knocks on the door of the bathroom. He won’t go so far as to invade her privacy without announcement.

He tries for a little dose of humor, and calls through the door, “I know you’re hiding from me in the shower right now, but I really need to use the toilet. Please pretend I’m not here, and I won’t intrude beyond that.”

She doesn’t respond which isn’t the best sign, but nor does she yell at him when he slowly opens the door. He doesn’t even look at the shower when he enters, eyes glued to the toilet. Pee, wash hands, he’s in and out of her hair in two minutes.

He reaches for himself when he hears a tiny sob, and he wheels about searching out Emma in the shadow of the shower door.

She’s seated within, just out of direct reach of the spray and he seats himself right beside her, tugging open the door.

“What’s wrong, love? Please tell me,” he begs. She pushes her face into her knees and he’s seen her look this small once, and she’d sworn “never again.”

Never is an awful falsehood.

“Look at me,” he begs again.

She tries to retreat further, and he loves her. She’s rejected that, already, but he loves her, so he cups her cheek, rubbing his thumb across it until she looks up. Killian draws his hand from her face to take the hand holding her knees bent. He doesn’t thread their fingers together because he’s not trying to imprison her hand in his grasp, but he does hold it firmly enough that she won’t slip free unless she wants to.

“Please,” he says.

Emma’s eyes hadn’t yet focused on him until his soft plea, and then she just snaps, “I don’t want to lose you.”

His thumb stills its smoothing across her knuckles.

“What?” He shakes his head, no help in clearing the confusion. “Why would you lose me?”

He sees the spark of his Emma in the look she gives him: he’s the worst kind of idiot.

But her voice isn’t that Emma at all when she near trembles around the words, “I love you _so_ much, and -” She laughs. “I know how uncomfortable that can be when you don’t feel the same.”

He _is_ the worst kind of idiot, but after this - gods, there’ll be an after and he never really got that far in his imagining - after _this_ , he’ll never stop reminding her that she is, too.

He gathers himself because now is really not a good time to crow. Containing everything he’s feeling is a difficulty, but he’s up to the task because Emma needs him to be.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about hearing you say that?”

Her distressed frown gives way to wide shock and he goes on.

“Of course, my dreams were not like this, but -” If he weren’t holding her hand within his, or if he’d bothered to put on his brace, he’d be able to scrub his hand through his hair the way he wants to. The laughter will just have to work. “I always hoped that one day you’d set me up on a date with someone or other, but when I entered the restaurant it’d be you waiting for me at the table.”

She groans, but it gives way to a delighted laughter that she breaks just short of it becoming delirious.

“You’re weird,” she says.

He shifts his hand on hers so that they can thread their fingers together if she wants.

She wants.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” he teases.

She doesn’t look away the way she might at an embarrassing confession. She lets him see her regret as she says, “I was never brave enough to.”

He can neither swallow down his when he replies, “You’re the bravest person I know, so either that makes me the scariest person in the world or -”

She supplies, “I should’ve taken a leap of faith.”

Emma smiles, and he returns it.

“Better late than never.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully - as if he never practiced them in his head. “I could never live a life without you. You’d never lose me.”

He draws their joined hands to his mouth, and as she sniffles and laughs softly, he kisses her hand.

“I love you,” he says against her skin, his eyes on hers.

They sit like that a moment. He finds he can’t stop kissing her hand, and he doesn’t want to, but eventually she draws his attentions away from that with a groaned sigh.

“I should probably leave this pity party before I turn prune-y.”

His bladder draws his attention to, and he nods, a bit of red spreading in his face when he says, “Yeah, I still need to go.”

By the time, he’s peed and washed his hands, she has the shower turned off. She peels the door open fully and he turns to give her privacy that he in no way wants to give. His heart twinges at the thought of leaving her alone. He can’t risk it - give her time to second guess herself.

And - he really doesn’t want to give himself a chance to second guess himself either. He really just wants to bask in the fact that she loves him, but he can already see himself chalking it up to some insane dream should he leave her in this bathroom alone.

“Please, stay,” she says.

He’s never been happier for her thoughts to mirror his own - except, perhaps, the love. He can no more process a proper word for how he feels that she returns his love than he can describe the depths of it.

“And, uh, you can look,” she says.

He stiffens.

Other parts of him stiffen as well, when she quickly adds, “I hope you look.”

Looking sounds nice, truly, but he has no intention of just looking so he turns and closes the distance between them in one stride.

She looks at him quizzically and then shouts in surprise when he lifts her and hoists her over his shoulder. She’s still soaking wet from the shower, having been given no time to even reach her towel, and the wet heat of her pressed against his arm and shoulder doesn’t make carrying her any easier. He wants to set her down only to lift her up as he fucks her against the wall, but he forces himself to keep his hold.

“Jesus fucking christ, you damn caveman,” she curses, dissolving into laughter as he carries her into her bedroom.

He deposits her on the bed, not as gently as he should but she doesn’t seem to mind. She says, “Come on,” with a crook of her fingers, but he chooses to savor her.

This isn’t a sight he’s been blessed with before, and truly he is blessed.

There’s too much of her on display and he truly doesn’t know where to look first, at the rivulets of water running down the slopes of her breasts. He’s pretended not to notice her nipples when she’s gone bra-less around the apartment, but he doesn’t have to now, and the pink of them seems to darken under his gaze - he realizes it’s a flush flooding Emma’s skin when he draws his eyes up across her collarbones to her neck. He stares at her chin for far longer than is natural, but he gets the sense that once his eyes reach her lips, he’ll lose himself entirely.

He should always trust his instincts.

Emma swipes her tongue over her bottom lip like she always does, but her chin’s never been tilted so temptingly as now, and she’s never looked at him like this. If she had…

He really doesn’t care for ifs right now.

Killian practically dives atop her. For a moment, he laments not pausing to gaze lower, but she amends his error with an uncontrolled gasp, spreading her legs to accommodate him. His current line of sight is her navel and all he has to do is duck his head and -

_Oh._

He really wants to be patient enough to trace his tongue over the creases of her thigh, kiss his way inward, nose through the neatly trimmed swath of dark blonde curls, show the same attention to her other thigh before ghosting his breath over her, watching her shiver before -

In the same span of time it takes for him to follow that line of thought he’s crawled up her body, resting most of his weight on his blunted arm so he can trace the column of her throat. She shivers then, and if she quakes like this for his hand on her neck, he cannot fathom how she would shiver with his breath on her.

“I know you want” - her breath hiccups as he buries his face in her neck, worrying the skin there with the scratch of his beard, gentling that touch with a soft kiss to every spot he finds - “To do the romantic thing, but here’s the thing -”

He lifts his head from her neck and stares at her intently. She’s on the verge of finishing the sentence, but silences it for a pout of frustration instead. He hasn’t seen her look this open in a while, perhaps he got so used to seeing her guarded that he forgot the breathlessness that such a sight can induce. He forgoes breathing entirely to place a kiss on her lips, the love she denied him which feels like countless ages ago, and he could keep at it all day but -

Well, he actually can’t, which is why he breaks the kiss to say, “Actually, I just want to fuck you into the mattress.”

“Oh thank god,” she says.

He chuckles, but it’s a gritted sound because her hands move to push at the waistband of his boxers. Her nails lightly scrape against the skin above his cock, and he lets out a burst of air somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, leaning towards the former. Killian draws up on his knees to make it easier and she works with him, pushing them over his hips, down his thighs where they drag at his knees and he awkwardly shuffles out of them.

Killian splays his hand across her neck, enjoying the way she shakes beneath the touch. He moves down over her breast. His thumb brushes over the tiny scar above it. She gasps at that, and he glances at her, caught in the slightly reverent look she gives him.

She shouldn’t waste her reverence on him. He losing all the virtues at this point. Temperance, patience, diligence are already gone, and if Emma keeps up the tiny motions she’s now making with her hips, arching into the space he’s eager to fill, he’ll have lost humility. Kindness is going next because he’s about to be as selfish as humanly possible and take all that Emma can give, and just hope he can give something equal in return. He has no idea how he’d apply chastity in this context because there was never any there to begin with, and charity is too vague an idea for him to give any proper meaning.

“Seriously, Killian, are you going to fuck me or -”

He slides his hand over her breast, the drag of her nipple beneath his palm drawing a groan from his throat to match her sweet cry. He presses lower, over the flat plane of her belly, no teasing as he reaches her curls, just slips his fingers low enough that he can spread her open. He meant to just be sure that she was ready for him, but she’s slick from the outside in, and in, that’s exactly where he needs to be, right now.

This time when she arches up he slides his arm beneath her leg to hook it over her shoulder. It gives him the right leverage to guide himself to her glistening sex. They both groan as he sinks into her, the pull of her on him too strong to keep him steady.

There’s exactly zero finesse to his thrusts. It matches the level of his restraint. He plunges into her, wants to show some level of care for her desires as well but she chases after him every time he retreats and clamps around him as he tries to draw further out of her. If possible, he stiffens further, drives deeper.

“Killian,” she whines.

He draws his gaze up from where he’s watching his cock bury in her silken depths, and meets her gaze. Her face is flushed and he’s never going to look at that blush and think of anything but the deep rosy pink spreading around him, for him, yielding so beautifully to him.

Killian thought she meant to say more, but when their eyes lock, he doesn’t need to hear more. He can only offer the same response.

He moans her name, feeling her relax then tighten around him, never at a rhythm he can predict, each time a surprise that sharpens the heat at the base of his spine. Her leg starts to slip down and when he adjusts his hold, she slips one hand to where they’re joined, rubbing at the sweet bud of flesh that he’s left so unattended. Her other hand reaches towards him and he leans forward so he can kiss her fingers, letting her cup his face afterwards.

Emma draws it back quickly as her movements speed up over her clit. Her fingers keep drifting lower, brushing against his cock as he ruts her into the mattress. It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

Her breathy pants, matching the rhythm of her clenching walls is just pure torture. He was too close to the edge when he first entered her, now he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Please, please,” she’s begging, eyes shutting to the pleasure darkening her cheeks, rounding her mouth, trembling her thighs.

He picks up his pace, pounding her into the mattress and her hand grabbing his arm is the only warning he gets before her orgasm tears his own from him. The pleasure crests in the wake of her cry, her rippling walls pulling every ounce of pleasure from his body. Her leg falls from his shoulder as he falls atop her. He feels both heavy and light, white hot and burning bright. Killian closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing. Her breasts heave against his chest, drawing tiny whimpers each time her nipples brush his skin.

He opens his eyes to look at her. He doesn’t know where he found the sense to not completely knock his head against hers in his fall, but he’s glad that he didn’t end this with both of them injured or unconscious.

Killian wants to be awake for this moment. Wants to wake to these moments every day for the rest of his life.

She wiggles beneath him and he gets it, both of them hissing as he draws out of her.

“Question,” she says while he’s still hovering over her.

“Hmm?”

“Why my bed?”

He grins at that, amused at his own cleverness when he says, “We slept together in my bed last night. It was your bed’s turn.”

He can hear the derisions of his character at the tip of her tongue. She settles on, “You just didn’t want to get your bed wet.”

“Make no mistake, darling, I’d love to get my bed wet with you.”

“Get off me,” she demands, but he heeds the request no mind. The strength he lost in the height of his pleasure returns with the absolute delight in her expression, and he wants to spend every last ounce of it kissing her senseless.

He leans forward. Her lips don’t beg nor do they plead, but they part when his touch them, and that is voice enough for him. If there is conversation between them, it’s a very repetitive one.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._


End file.
